


pain, pain, go away (please?)

by mikkal



Series: sleeping at last (oct '19) [9]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Blood and Injury, Hurt Noctis Lucis Caelum, Hurt/Comfort, Stitches, Whumptober 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2021-01-14 18:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21194291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikkal/pseuds/mikkal
Summary: Prompto checks in on Noctis in the aftermath of a daemon hunt gone sideways.Whumpter 2019 Day 11: Stitches





	pain, pain, go away (please?)

**Author's Note:**

> um, what?  
Sorry!!

Noctis stares at the ceiling, breathing carefully. In. Out. In. Out. Slow and steady and all that shit. But it’s not enough. It’s never enough. Tears prick the corner of is eyes, spilling over to wet his pillow. He’d lift a hand to scrub them away but he’s just _so tired_. It’s too much effort to bother moving.

There’s a knock on the hotel door, only out of politeness, and even though Noctis doesn’t say anything, it creaks open and Prompto sticks his head in, hair windswept and face red from the Lestallum heat. He takes one look at Noctis’ miserable expression and tiptoes in, closing the door with a quiet click. He steps over duffle bags and med kits, over Ignis’ leg stretched out as the advisor sleeps slouched in the rickety chair.

Prompto pauses to take the older man’s glasses off, setting them to the side, before he sits carefully on the edge of the bed, hip just in reach of Noctis’ lax hand. Noctis takes what’s offered, hooking a finger through a belt loop. It takes less effort to let his hand hang there and he’s more than grateful for his friend’s presence. It doesn’t take away the pain. The comfort though? That’s more than worth it.

It gets better when Prompto leans over, torso twisting awkwardly so he doesn’t shake Noctis’ grip. His shadow is like a blanket, casted over him and blocking the sun and the curling light of the meteor shard that powers Lestallum. Prompto plucks at the collar of Noctis’ loose shirt, mouth wrenched into a concerned frown.

“How you feeling?” he whispers.

“Shitty,” Noctis whispers back, voice rough from pain. He closes his eyes and tightens his grip. “What’re you doin’?”

Prompto scoots a little closer, hand drifting down to pull on the hem of Noctis’ shirt instead. “It was getting too hot,” he says as he slowly inches the shirt up over his stomach. “And I think Gladio and Iris wanted some sibling bonding time.” His frown carves deeper when Noctis tugs on his belt loop. “What? I want to check on it.”

Noctis’ eyebrows furrow and shakes his head. “It’s gross.” Another tug. “You can’t do anything.”

“I can wake up Ignis.”

His eyes fly open. “_No!_” he hisses, struggling to sit up.

Immediately he freezes, pain like fire along his nerves, his face paling then gaining a greyish tinge. He clasps a hand on Prompto’s bicep like a vise, knuckles bleaching white, as he struggles to breathe. Prompto gently pushes him back against the mattress, murmurs meaningless yet soothing words under his breath, hand wrapped around his wrists, thumb pressed against his pulse point.

Noctis shudders. “Don’t…don’t wake…him,” he mumbles around numb lips. Fresh tears spill down his cheeks. “He needs…sleep.”

“I’m pretty sure he’d kill me if I let you stay in pain.” He pauses, eyes widening in horror as if he’s just realized something. “Noct, buddy, pal…how long have you been awake?”

…He doesn’t know. His phone is over on the side table and the digital clock is at too awkward an angle for him to take a look without hurting himself. Luckily, his silence seems to be a good enough answer even if it is the type of answer that has Prompto making a noise of despair, eyes wet and chin set stiff in the way that means he’s trying to hold it together.

Maybe miserable-looking isn’t the right word to describe Noctis then, it’s too understated. Considering he’s been holed up in the Leville for the past two days, fighting fever and nightmares, drowning in pain and _guilt_—because he wasn’t fast enough to avoid the ronin’s blade, because he wasn’t competent enough to get his head out of the clouds and use a potion straight away—miserable isn’t enough. His skin is waxy pale, his eye sunken in, and cheeks hollowed. His shirt contours over the bumps of bandages and stitches marring his chest and stomach.

Prompto tugs at his shirt hem again, expression resolute. Noctis sighs, as much as it can be called a sigh stopping and stuttering as it is—and turns his eyes towards the ceiling. They’re in one of the nicer rooms of the Leville. He didn’t think Lestallum’s Leville had nicer rooms. The place is as patchworked as the city, a blooming quilt with the heart at the meteor shard.

He tries to ignore the dull licks of pain that come from his shirt unsticking from his chest, the fabric catching on the edge of a thread. He hisses anyway, finger tightening in Prompto’s belt loop. His friend whispers apologies, grimacing as the damage is revealed.

Somehow. Somehow it looks worse now that it did seeing Noctis frozen, in too much pain to scream, drenched in his own blood. He’d collapsed at the end after driving his engine blade into the daemon’s heart, probably saving Gladio’s life in the process, and it was only then they could see the darker spots his black clothes for what they were.

Blood. It streaked across his skin when Ignis pulled up his shirt, dripped into the waistline of his pants, slid down his thighs. That’s how much of it there was. All the wounds were on his torso and stomach, yet the blood stained his socks and the inside of his boots.

Now they stare Prompto in the face. Two long slashes, one across his chest and the other his stomach, stitched up so precisely only Ignis could’ve done it—and he knows this, he was there. Holding Noctis’ ankles while Gladio held his shoulders, unable to stop crying as his friend screamed in pain until he finally passed out.

They’re swollen, red and angry. Dark purple and blue bruises framing them like a particularly macabre piece of work. The ronin’s blade wasn’t very sharp, a dull impact before enough force could slice it through flesh. Like a butter knife drawn across the skin.

There’s a fluttering of bandages on lesser wounds from the imps that had been the sole reason they were out so late to begin with, a hunt that had even Dave backing off until reinforcements could arrive. With Noctis’ magic they thought they could take it—they’re only imps! It’ll be fine!

Nope, ronin.

Prompto ghosts fingers over the longer slash across Noctis’ chest, biting his lip and trying hard not to cry over his very-much-in-pain, very-much-_alive_ friend. They were low on potions, something Ignis still won’t give himself leeway on and probably won’t for a while, and not even the single hi-potion Noctis had made back at Hammerhead was enough to put a dent in the wounds.

He could go to the Wainterre Haven never again and it would still be too soon. Noctis’ blood probably stains the stonework even after the angry storm that passed over Duscae not long after they made it there and took care of the prince’s injuries. Gladio blamed Ramuh. And considering the brightest lightning and the loudest thunder came when Noctis’ passed out, Prompto’s inclined to agree.

The Stormsender obviously favors Noctis more than Titan does and Noctis always loved storms.

He wants Noctis to grab his hand and tell him, with a lopsided grin and more confidence than he should have, that he’s okay, it barely hurts. But his chest hitches with each breath, the stitches glisten with whatever Ignis slathered on them to help the healing along. His face is grey, almost colorless completely. There are lines carved deep into his forehead and around his mouth. His eyes are glassy and distant. Even his grip on Prompto’s belt loop is loosening.

Prompto reaches up with a shaky hand and places it over Noctis’ too warm forehead. His glassy eyes slip close and he leans into the touch, humming. He carefully brushes his fingers back through his hair, ignoring the more than two days’ worth (because it was a while since they stayed anywhere but a Haven even before the hunt) of grime, and works on picking out a tangle with his fingernails. Noctis sighs, almost relaxes, but then he’s tensing, expression twisting.

“I’m waking Ignis,” Prompto says. And it’s testament to how much pain he’s in that Noctis doesn’t bother arguing this time.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr @mikkalia15  
twitter @mik_kal15  



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